Keehl's Ninth
by Catmoongirl
Summary: Matt's a writer frustrated by his lack of success. Mello's a cellist desperate to escape. When the two meet, their lives become intertwined. However, change isn't always an enjoyable experience.
1. Prelude

A/N: Hello again! This is actually a bit unexpected for me even. I hadn't really expected to have this up and posted until after I finished Thicker Than Blood, but I've hit a bit of a snag with that story and I wanted to get this up to tide people over until I can finish chapter 2. Don't expect this to be updated completely regularly, but it will be finished and updated on a semi-regular basis. I honestly have most of it planned out and about 30 percent of it already written.  
I thought this up back when I was writing Beyond and I just couldn't help myself. This AU setting was just _calling_ to me, so I had to write it. It's written from Matt's point of view.  
Normally, I hate writing AU but this...this was a lot of fun. It might be because Catcher in the Rye is my favorite book. lol. Well, I do hope you enjoy this. I work on this when I hit a writers block with my other stuff, just to keep my mind going.  
Until the next chapter, enjoy! **Please read and review!**

Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note. If I did, this would be a spin off in a heart beat. Death Note belongs to Ohba and Obata.

* * *

Chapter 1 - Prelude

Worst. Fucking. Day. Ever.

That was all I could think as my shoes filled with water from the deep puddle I'd suddenly landed in outside the coffee house. It was pouring down rain and every single person that walked past me seemed intent on bumping me or jostling me...

You know, maybe I should start at the beginning.

I've got a bit of a problem with that, I can never start things properly.

My name is Mail Jeevas, but my pen name is Matt. Just Matt. I'm a writer, not an author.

You see, authors are successful, authors are published.

I've been published once and I don't think more than ten copies of it ever sold. I sometimes wonder if it's my agent's fault. Naomi has a tendency to come on a bit strong to other publishing houses. Even so, I'm a bit thankful for it, since she always manages to get things done. If that idiot Matsuda were my agent, I knew that nothing would ever happen for me.

I've been writing for the same publishing house for about 2 years now, since I got my first manuscript accepted when I was 18. Soichiro Yagami, my editor, is always sending my manuscripts back, complaining that the story isn't mainstream enough, that my topics are too alternative.

That's how I got here, to this coffee house on this God awful day. It started pouring the moment I parked my car. I would have been able to park closer, but I got caught in the rush hour traffic jam. So, since all the spots close by had been taken, I had to walk almost 7 blocks just to get there.

See, that's the kind of luck I have.

So, there I was at this _mainstream_ coffee joint, dripping wet, crammed in with a bunch of angsty teens and snobbish grad students and promiscuous college girls and I couldn't even _try _and enjoy myself even if I wanted to, because this was technically a business trip. I wish I had some cash on me, because then I could have bought something to drink and claimed reimbursement or something.

It was such a small place. Not so small that I had to breathe everyone's body odor, but small enough that you had to actually watch where you were going if you didn't want to run into someone and get coffee spilled all over you. There were all these pillows on the floor and beanbags and couches and shit on one side, tables were on the other. I opted for the tables, the less crowded half of the place.

I finally found some table in a dark corner, next to this couple who couldn't stop sucking each other's faces off for even a moment. I was tempted to tap them on the shoulder and tell them that a very comfortable couch had just become available across the room, though I decided that I really didn't want to _touch_ either of them. It just seemed gross, to touch someone while they're making out if you're not the one being kissed. As I kept listening to the slurping and sucking noises they were making, it became clear to me that I had much better things to do than this.

I really didn't like people all that much and I rarely went out. I had only a few friends, only one of which is close to me.

I had a therapist when I was younger; she told me I was fiercely anti-social and that I was afraid of others. Eh, to be honest, I think she was a little over dramatic, but it was true that I didn't enjoy being around people. I suppose it's a space issue.

Even though I felt uncomfortable as hell, I got out my legal pad and started scribbling idly as someone came up on the small empty area at the back of the shop, a stage of sorts. There were almost no lights in this damn place and the few they had were all pointed at the man who was at the mic.

It was some sort of musical performance by some local artist. God, I wish I had brought ear plugs. I was in no mood to listen to some townie who wrongly thought they could hold a tune. I barely even listened to the introduction, but apparently the musician went by the name Mello.

"Isn't that cutting edge," I muttered sarcastically.

What a bullshit name.

I really wasn't that interested in the whole music scene, it wasn't going to help me with my writing. Maybe if it had been a poetry slam or an open mic night, that may have been a little more helpful.

I kept my head down, currently drawing stick figures across the legal pad. Stick figure Naomi was burning me at the stake for failing to finish my manuscript in time for the next editor's meeting and I was more than happy to help her pour gasoline on my body.

Then...I heard _it_. The most amazing sound I had heard in a long while.

It was...a cello. Someone was playing the cello up on the stage. I froze for a moment, my pen only halfway done with an illustration of me being drawn and quartered by the rest of the editor's, and the name "sucker" written in big letters over my stick figure double.

It was such a beautiful sound, the opening note so strong and powerful, tapering off into a wavering sigh, into running eighth notes, up and down, like a petal turning on the breeze.

Hell, I found myself writing this stuff down as this "Mello" kept playing. Images of empty stone corridors and grassy fields and powder white skin and intense ruby lips filled my head. They kept moving about my mind like lightning bugs in the woods and I was chasing after them with my jar to capture them and put them on paper.

I realized suddenly that my scribbling was quite loud and the couple next to me were telling me to be quiet. My train of thought was broken, but I was still entranced by the music being played, which had taken up a much faster pace.

So I finally looked up to see who it was and...well, I must have gasped, even though I'm embarrassed to say so. The couple gave me an odd look and I tried to cover it up as if I were just sighing.

It was a man who was playing. At least, I _think_ it was a man who was playing, fairly sure it was. If it wasn't a man, it was a very flat chested woman, because there were no breasts beneath the white dress shirt _they _were wearing.

A white dress shirt and black slacks. God, he looked young, really young. He had a youthful face, as if he were only about 15 or 16. There was a rather bad scar on the left half of his face, but that didn't detract from his image. You know how sometimes, people with scars are quite beautiful when you can't see them, but once you do, you can't seem to see anything else?

This guy was nothing like that. If anything, his scar made his image, it gave him that air of mystery and danger that I could definitely feel surrounding him.

Man, I must have looked like a fucking idiot, staring like a goddamn pedophile.

He had this lovely blond hair that glittered like gold as he played, shimmering in the spotlights as it swayed back and forth in time with the arm moving his bow across the strings. That was what made him look womanly, his hair, cut in a feminine bob that framed his face so perfectly. He paused, slowly retaking, tilting his head to the side before drawing the horsehair over the strings once more, gold spilling over in front of his eyes that were closed in a placid expression.

He just radiated this wary calm, if such a thing could exist.

I began to focus on his fingers, moving up and down the neck with such speed that I could hardly keep up. They would jump and shift and slide along the strings, nimble and agile, nails that were perfectly trimmed and cleaned. For some reason, I wanted to touch his hand, to see if it was as soft as it looked.

God, I must be fucking crazy.

I didn't even _know_ this guy and already I'm fantasizing about what his fucking _hands_ feel like.

The pace was picked up again and the bow began to move faster and his fingers moved faster and the notes grew more dissonant and sharp and tragic, like the death wails of a man desperate for revenge. Then, as it looped back to the main melody, he finally opened his eyes, though they weren't looking into the crowd or at anything in this world. I could see he was looking out at someplace very far away and very out of reach of any of us. He was smiling too, and it was the most genuine I had ever seen. I mean, it was a smile that said, clearly and blatantly, that he enjoyed what he was doing, that he loved the music he was making and that it was a great passion for him.

I never see those sorts of smiles on people.

And then, a series of descending scales, falling and falling and falling like Alice down the Rabbit Hole and touching down with a harmonious pair of firm, but gentle chords.

It took me a few moments to realize he had stopped playing. Only when the kissing couple finally pulled away from each other to applaud the young man did I see that he was standing and taking his bows.

Hell, even I clapped for him. What the hell was a talent like him doing in this tiny little hole?

I watched as he walked off the stage and handed his cello to someone standing near the fire exit, before this big guy with an angled, sharp face and these broad shoulders came up next to him and put a hand on his shoulder. He looked so tiny in comparison to the man, not because of height, but just the sheer size.

I don't know what exactly it was that tipped me off, but something immediately felt wrong. The way the young man suddenly tensed, the way he held himself, the way the hand on his shoulder tightened possessively, almost obsessively.

No, I think it was the way he hung his head, as if he were submitting to the man, as if he were waiting for some sort of violent blow to the face.

I tried to keep my eye on them, but I suddenly lost them in the crowd and the feeling of unease in my gut slowly dissipated.

The moment it was gone though, I was writing like mad. I'd have to remember to thank Soichiro for suggesting this place. I wasn't even writing a coherent story, just jotting down anything that came to mind, anything descriptive and vivid and meaningful.

Then I began to draw little pictures of my editors getting stranded on a desert island in a plane crash and wailing that they were wrong about me.

When they began to announce another musical act, I grew hopeful. Perhaps that blond would decide to play an encore.

Unfortunately, no. It was some crappy local rock group. Everyone jumped from their seats, crowding around the stage as three guys with this whole grunge rock look started squealing on guitars and banging on drums and just plain making a bunch of noise.

I decided it'd be a good idea to get the hell out of there.

But, as I packed up my things, I realized that I had to pee like hell.

"Hey, where's your bathroom at?" I asked the guy at the front counter.

He pointed back to a hall next to the stage. "It's at the very back of the building. The lock's broken though, so make sure you knock first."

It took me a good five minutes just to make it back there, what with all the people I had to push through. I couldn't remember when all of them had started pouring in. I guess this group was popular.

They sounded horrible though.

The hall at the back of the shop seemed to go on and on forever, but I finally found the door reading "restroom" on it.

I knocked on the door, but the band was still pretty loud. I had to shout to make myself heard. "Hey, anyone in there?"

Nothing but a loud crash and bang and boom from the band. So, I opened the door...

"HOLY FUCKING HELL!"

Holy shit! There was blood all over the place! It was all over the walls and on the floor and...fucking everywhere!

I was frozen in place there, in the doorway of the restroom, too scared to fucking move.

And right there, in the center of it all, was that blond cellist, crouching down on the floor, the front of his shirt stained with blood and dripping down his hands and all over him. I could see it in his hair and splattered across his face.

The big guy I'd seen him with was sprawled over the tile floor, eyes wide and dead and horrified as they stared ahead with no end in sight. The side of his head was dented in and I could see more blood and some of his brains spilling out of his skull.

That was when I realized that the crash I had heard wasn't from the band. It was the sound of the man's head hitting the bathroom sink, which had a rather large chunk missing from it (it was resting only inches from where the bloody corpse on the floor lay), and the boom was from when he'd hit ground.

I jerked suddenly as the blond stood, slowly, as if he were afraid I'd run.

God dammit, I wanted to! I wanted to fucking run and scream and vomit and cry and-

I just wanted to get the hell out of there!

But, this kid held my eyes with his, rooted me to the spot with his expression, still as calm and placid as before, but deathly serious and grave, not even a trace of a smile on his lips.

"W-what the fuck happened?!" I stumbled as I felt my arms and legs beginning to shake.

"Do you have a car?"

He caught me off guard with his question. I'd been expecting something different, like "You didn't see nothin,'" or "You're next, bitch," or maybe even a "Get the hell out."

"W-what?"

He took a step towards me, a drop of blood dripping from his ring finger. There were shards of broken glass in his hands. The mirror above the sink had shattered too. I could see stray stains of blood in between the spidery cracks in the mirror's surface. "Do you have a car?"

My eyes kept darting to the spray of red across his cheeks and forehead and chin. It was almost like war paint. His brow furrowed only slightly when I hesitated answering. "Do you or don't you?" he asked again, sharply this time.

"Y-yeah, I do," I finally admitted, slowly raising my hands above my head. "P-please don't kill me."

He clicked his tongue quietly and reached up to pull my arms down. "I'm not going to kill you. Can you drive me somewhere?"

"I...I don't know. Where do you want to go?"

He turned away from me, turning on the tap on the broken sink. The faucet let out a weak, unsteady trickle. "Anywhere, as far away from here as you can get me." He began to splash water on his shirt, trying to rub the blood stains out. Even I could see that it was a pretty hopeless endeavor. When he realized this as well, he took to pulling the glass out of his hand, hissing in pain as blood began to pour from the wounds.

This guy had just murdered a man in cold blood and now he was asking me for a ride?

I'd have to be crazy to say yes.

But, I've said it before, I _must _be crazy.

"I'll take you where ever you want."

He glanced up, seemingly just as confused as I was by my compliant answer. "I'm not going to kill you, no one is going to come after you, you won't get arrested. You don't _have_ to do this."

"I-I know." I swallowed hard. What the fuck was I doing?!

"Shit!" he exclaimed quietly as he pulled another shard out. I couldn't tell if he was cursing from the pain or from something else "I need to leave now."

I nodded quickly, fully aware of the urgency in his voice, the authority of it.

I gave him my jacket to hide the blood and smuggled him out the back.

I felt like I was in one of those suspense films, always looking back over my shoulder, fearing that there would be some guy with a gun right around every corner.

"Relax," the blond ordered. He seemed too calm. I wonder if he realized that he just _fucking killed someone!_ "You're only making yourself look more suspicious. Fucking hell, I thought you said you had a car!"

"I do, I just...I had to park far away, okay?"

His entire mood changed instantly, from tranquil to murderous in the blink of an eye. His arm was up and around my neck from behind, holding a large piece of broken glass he'd been hiding in his pocket to my throat. "Listen you little fucker," he hissed menacingly in my ear and I thought I might actually piss myself. "If you're trying to walk me into a fucking set up, I swear to God I'll slit your throat right here."

"I promise I'm not!" I gasped, struggling to breath as his arm tightened against my windpipe. "I don't even know you!"

"Then why the hell were you so eager to help me?!" I winced as he pressed the glass harder against my skin. A small trickle of blood dripped warmly down my neck.

"I don't know!" I flushed, knowing how stupid my next words were going to sound. "You...you played so nicely and...I don't fucking know, I guess I just wanted to help you!"

He was still for a few seconds before he finally released me, looking embarrassed. "Keep walking."

So I did, touching the small cut on my neck every few moments. Neither of us said anything more until we reached my car when he brusquely told me to hurry up as I struggled to unlock the damn thing.

Again, silence fell between us as I started the car and drove away as quickly as I could, listing off as many places as I could in my head that were a reasonable distance from the coffee shop.

Well, there's the airport, the highway, the mall, a bunch of suburbs, some apartment complexes and strip malls, and...well, my place.

"So...um, who was that guy?"

"My father," he said bluntly, gazing out the window, wrapping his hands tightly with the sleeves of my jacket. I hadn't even considered that he was ruining the upholstery with blood.

"Oh...wow..." Oh, wow? What the hell? How lame was I?

"Go ahead," he murmured. "You can say it."

I blinked. "Say what?"

He turned to look at me, a glimmer of surprise in his eye. "That I'm a horrible person, that I'm disgusting and ugly and a freak. I know that's what you're thinking." He touched his face with bloodied fingers, leaving red smears over the scarred half of his face as he looked away again. "I saw you staring."

"I wasn't staring-!" I realized I'd raised my voice and quickly lowered it. I have a tendency to shout if I get excited or defensive. "I wasn't staring...at that." I cleared my throat, feeling my face burning. "I was just staring at you, I guess."

"Pervert."

"Tch. I'm allowed to have my own opinion." I said, rather annoyed with him all of a sudden. "Would you rather I tell you that you're hideous?"

"Yes, I would," he said, almost inaudibly.

I had nothing to say to this. I couldn't bring myself to tell him that he was hideous, because it honestly wasn't true.

I'd never met someone who could still look attractive while covered in blood.

"What's your name?" The question sounded so sudden in the quiet.

He was silent again for a second or two. "You were there. You heard them say my name."

I smiled a little, despite myself, despite the fact that it might have come off as rude and cruel and callous. I really couldn't help it though. "Mello? That's your real name?"

"No," he cut in. "But why the hell would I tell you my real name? Mello is just fine."

"I'm Matt, then." I felt a bit smug that I was allowed to be secretive too. "That isn't my real name either, though."

"Where are you taking me?"

"I don't really know. Where do you want to go?"

He let out a soft, cold laugh. "Where ever is safest."

I licked my lips and took a slow breath. Great, I picked a fantastic time to start acting nervous. "Well, I've got a house that's about a half an hour away..." I looked over at him to try and glean a reaction.

Nothing but an empty stare.

"If...you'd like to, you can stay there."

"Fine, I don't care." Then he leaned against the window and fell asleep without another word.

* * *

"AH! Jesus fucking Christ, Matt! Just do it already!"

"Listen, Mello, I really don't think I'm qualified to do this!"

Mello took a large swig of vodka from the bottle in his hand that I'd given him. I didn't know how old he was, but he insisted that he was old enough. I felt a bit sorry for him though.

If I had to pull glass out of _my _hands, I'd want a strong drink too.

"Look, just grab it, pull it out, and clean it up. It's not that difficult."

He was sitting on the couch in my living room, his hand dripping blood onto his pants as he held it out to me. I was kneeling in front of him, looking like a complete idiot. Shit, the tweezers in my hand were shaking like a leaf. I took the bloodied hand and made to pull a piece out, but he suddenly gasped in pain as my wrist suddenly jerked in a nervous spasm.

"Shit, Mello, I can't do this!" I exclaimed, leaning back from him. "We should call a doctor or something."

He grabbed the collar of my shirt, jerking me towards him. "Doctors ask questions," he said, the smell of alcohol heavy on his breath. He didn't seem angry, just scared and desperate and impatient. I was beginning to suspect he was trying to drink himself into a coma just to get away from the pain. "And you don't. So grow a fucking pair and just get it done!"

Damn, he was intimidating.

But in a good way, like he was pushing me to do my best, to overcome my fears, instead of threatening me into performing amateur surgery.

So, I finally began again. For the first few pieces he was cursing his head off at me because my hands kept shaking. But, eventually, I calmed down a little and the rest of it was almost easy.

12 pieces of glass and half a bottle of peroxide later, his right hand was bandaged and glass-free. I went to start on the other hand, but he stopped me.

"I can do it now."

I ignored him and took the other hand. "Judging by how badly you're slurring your words, I really don't think you can."

"I am not slurring!" he insisted, his words just as muddled as before.

"You're drunk," I stated as I pulled out the first large piece. "Just sit back, alright?" I tried to smile up at him. "I've got this. You don't need to worry."

He scoffed at me as he leaned back against the couch. "You're quite the naive one, aren't you? You do know that I murdered my own father back there, right?"

I didn't answer him, I didn't want to hear him. I just kept myself focused on pulling glass out of his hand, hands that might possibly strangle me in my sleep.

He laughed, cruel and bitter. "Yeah, I killed my father, so what's to stop me from doing the same to you? Yet here you are, _nursing me back to health_." He said the words in a sickeningly sweet tone, mocking me. "You drove me here, brought me to your fucking house. God, you just _want _to die, don't you?"

He yelped in pain as I swiftly pulled out a particularly large shard. For a moment, I did nothing to stop the blood that flowed freely from the cut. I just watched it well and drip.

Then, this awful whimper escaped his lips and he shivered and the trance was broken. The peroxide was in my hand and I was pouring it over the wound and he was calling me every single obscene name under the sun and a few I had never even heard before. I quickly looked up at him as I wrapped his hand.

He was practically _crying_.

Jesus, now I felt like absolute shit.

"I've got a futon in my office. I can move it in here for you."

He grunted and looked away from me, cradling his hands against his chest.

So I went and got the futon and began dragging it out and down the hall, only to find that he'd somehow found my bedroom and was sprawled out over my bed, staring at the ceiling.

"What are you doing?" I asked, a bit irritated that he'd invited himself onto my bed.

But, I also felt this small surge of excitement at the sight and I don't quite know why.

"I like this room more," he said, never taking his eyes off of the ceiling. He pointed to the empty spot near the window. "Can't you move it here instead?"

"You...want to sleep in here?" He nodded slowly. "With me?"

He smirked and finally looked over at me. "Pervert."

I groaned in frustration. "I was just making sure you were up for sharing a room with me, I wasn't insinuating that I wanted to sleep with you."

He pushed himself off my bed and pressed past me to help carry the frame.

"You don't have to insinuate it, I could already tell that you wanted to," he breathed against my ear.

I went as still as a stone and suddenly stopped breathing. Was he rubbing against me? What the hell was going on?

Then, he had moved on to the other side of the futon to help me carry it. "Well? Are you gonna move this or not?"

I started at him for a moment and I briefly considered that I'd simply imagined it all. "Y...yeah," I said slowly before moving the futon into the bedroom.

So, this was how it was going to be. Tonight, we'd fall asleep and I'd probably wake at some ungodly hour to him with his hands around my throat, slowly choking me to death because I'm insane and stupid and secretly desperate for attention and company.

I gave him a pair of my boxers and a t-shirt to sleep in and put his other clothes in the wash. I doubted the blood stains would come out, but it couldn't hurt to try.

He was lying in bed, already changed and nearly asleep, when I came back. He was smiling up at me as if I were his best friend in the entire world. "Do you think you could take me somewhere tomorrow?"

"What for?" I was really tired, I felt emotionally and physically drained. Slowly, I turned off the light and climbed into bed.

"I need to go back to my house and get my cello and a few of my things." The streetlight from outside was pouring in the window, casting his face in an orange light.

I nodded sleepily. "Do you want me to close the blinds? That light is going to be right in your face."

"No, it's fine."

I nodded again unquestioningly and rolled over to go to sleep. My digital clock on the night stand read 11:30 PM when I closed my eyes.

"Hey...Matt?"

My eyes fluttered open. The clock said 1:15 AM. Was I dreaming? Mello was leaning over the bed, staring at me. He looked as if he'd been crying.

"Mello, are you alright?"

He wiped a hand over his eyes and set his face in a serious expression. "I'm fine."

I raised my head from my pillow slightly when he didn't move. "What is it?"

"Can I..." he crawled halfway up onto my bed. "Can I just lie here for a second?"

I tried not to give him a weird look, but it was definitely an odd request. Still, I kept getting this feeling like I had an obligation to help him. So I told him he could and he got up onto the bed and laid on his back, not bothering to get in under the sheets. He was staring at the ceiling again, as if there were something simply fascinating up there that I just couldn't see.

I smiled slightly and reached over to gently touch his shoulder.

"Don't touch me!" he hissed, flinching away.

I pulled my hand back, looking scared. He looked scared too, with eyes as wide as dinner plates, as if I'd just jabbed at him with a knife or something.

"Please...don't touch me."

I nodded slowly and retreated back to my half of the bed, silently pondering what must be running through his head.

I wasn't wrong, I knew I sensed some sort of animosity between Mello and the man who I now knew to be his father. Maybe his father was abusive, or maybe Mello was legally insane and I was actually harboring some deadly psychopath, or maybe he was lying and that wasn't his father at all, just some guy who owed him money or something.

Or perhaps I would find out from Mello in due time.

It was late, and I really didn't have the mental capacity at that moment to process all the information.

Still, I stayed awake until Mello got up and went back to the futon, muttering a quick "thanks" on the way. It was 2:00 AM when we both finally fell asleep, and both of us still couldn't get into each other's head to find out what exactly it was that compelled us to do the things we'd done.

* * *

I was up at 8:30 the next morning. Mello slept in until 10.

Hell, I was just thankful to still be alive. Guess he wasn't such a deadly psychopath after all.

Still, I wondered why he would have said those things to me last night. Maybe he was just trying to scare me into not calling the cops on him or something.

Geez, maybe I should be calling the police. I mean...did this make me an accomplice to a murder? I couldn't afford to go to jail!

I kept thinking about what prison would be like as poured syrup onto a pair of toaster waffles. What if I get shanked? What if they give me a life sentence? What...what if I drop the fucking soap?!

"What are you doing?"

I wheeled around, brandishing the syrup bottle like some sort of weapon, only to find Mello staring at me, leaning sleepily against the doorframe.

He wrinkled his nose and raised his eyebrow in confusion. "What the fuck are you trying to do? Bludgeon me with Mrs. Butterworth?"

I quickly set the syrup bottle down once I realized what the hell I was doing and turned back to my waffles. "Sorry, you just startled me." I looked down to realize that I'd drowned my breakfast in syrup when I got lost in my thoughts. The waffles were practically floating in the sugary substance.

He stepped up beside me, yanking up on the waist band of the boxers I'd lent him. He was pretty fucking thin, I noticed, now that I looked closely. They kept slipping down his hips every few seconds. And the neck of my shirt was too big, nearly slipping down his right shoulder. My clothes didn't look very flattering on him. He was looking at my waffles disgustedly. "Well, I'll have to avoid startling you from now on, lest I wish to die a thick and buttery death like these guys here." He nodded to my soggy waffles.

"How are your hands?" I had noticed that he'd changed the wrappings around them himself. He must have found the gauze I had set out in the bathroom.

"They're alright, actually. Most of them have healed over already."

I couldn't fucking believe I was having this conversation. He had just killed someone, and I was more concerned about how his hands were healing?

My priorities are pretty fucked up.

He seemed to notice my concern, probably because I was staring at his hands. "Look, if you've got such reservations, you can call the police."

"No, it's not that." What?! Yes, it was! God, what was it about him that made me so fiercely protective of him? Was I seriously that desperate for someone to talk to?

I still couldn't figure out what it was about him that drew me in.

"Well, none of them were very deep," he murmured in a tone that said he was just talking to fill the silence. "A few days and I should be able to play again. A few weeks and it won't burn like hell." He popped his own waffles into the toaster and sat down with me at the kitchen table while they cooked. "So," he began, setting his chin in his hands. "When can you take me?"

I shrugged, doing my best to wade through the syrup on my plate. "Anytime, I guess."

"Don't you have a job?"

"I make my own hours," I answered cryptically.

I'm not a secretive guy or anything, but he'd been playing these little mystery games with me since he got here. I had this childish urge to one up him in vagueness.

His waffles popped up out of the toaster, but he kept looking me over before going to get them. "Salesman?"

I laughed. "Hell, no."

"Well, I suppose that's lucky," he said as he went over to put his waffles on his plate. "I can't stand that type." He walked over to my fridge and opened it. "Do you have any chocolate syrup?"

"Yeah, it's in the second shelf on the door." I watched him pull it out and begin pouring the stuff onto his waffles. "You're weird."

"You're one to talk," he playfully retorted as he sat down again. "A normal person would have had me arrested last night." He took a bite of his breakfast and kept giving me that scrutinizing look. It was odd, but for some reason, I didn't mind it. "Public relations?"

Yes, the anti-social guy as a public relations expert. "I'll forgive you for that one, but only because you don't know me. Come on, this isn't fair. Don't I get to ask you questions?"

"Only if you're okay with the fact that you might not like what you hear."

I looked up at him and we stared at each other for a moment, a second of quiet that seemed to last years.

"You're a cellist," I finally said.

He snorted at me, licking a drop of chocolate syrup from his lips. "Brilliant guess." I shrugged and he laughed a little bit. "Alright, um..." He tapped his fork thoughtfully on the edge of his plate. "Journalist?"

"Close, but no." I finished off my waffles and pushed my plate aside. "My turn then. Where are you from?"

"Austria." I must have looked shocked because he started to explain himself. "I was born there, I only lived there for a year. My father was from America, my mother lived in Cyprus, but she was born in Switzerland. What about you then?"

"I don't remember," I answered.

"Oh, come on, that's not fair. You have to answer it. I answered yours."

I shook my head. "I honestly don't remember. I've lived in an orphanage in the city all my life. The only thing I have of my parents is the inheritance they left me. It bought me this house."

"Was it lonely?" He asked, his voice suddenly gentle.

I hesitated answering. Had it been lonely? "Wait a minute, it's my turn to ask a question. Why were you playing in a coffee shop last night?"

"Why wouldn't I be?'

"No answering questions with questions."

"Fine, elaborate your question then."

"You play like a fucking virtuoso, why were you at some tiny local event?"

"Because I wanted to." He gave me a large grin. "You're asking the wrong kinds of questions if you want to get useful information out of me." He, too, finished his breakfast and pushed his plate aside. "Author?"

"Writer, yeah."

"What's the difference?"

"It's not your turn."

He scowled at me and leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "Go on, then."

I tried to think up something to ask, something that didn't come off as nosy or suspicious, something casual. What would he enjoy talking about?

"Why did you start playing music?"

I had been expecting him to smile, to look happy, like he had last night on that stage.

No, he went deathly white on me and gave me this frown as if he were trying to tell me, "I really wish you hadn't asked that."

"You know," he began, really quietly. It was almost difficult to hear him since he was staring down at this hands in his lap instead of looking up at me. "Johann van Beethoven took the example of Leopold Mozart when he raised his son, Ludwig. He got his son involved in music at an early age when he realized Ludwig's talent, hoping that he would be the next Wolfgang Mozart. Johann marketed him as a child prodigy and lied about his age for publicity. He wanted Ludwig to make it famous so that he would make the Beethoven family rich. Johann was an abusive father with an alcohol addiction and liquor wasn't cheap. So, to make sure his son would do his part to earn him his booze money, he'd drag him out of bed in the middle of the night and force him to practice until dawn. He'd hit him and criticize him and call him an embarrassment to the family name." He finally looked up at me again and there was this powerful look in his eyes, vivid and clear.

It was a deep sadness, a pain that I could barely even stand to look at.

He was hurt. He was broken.

"Still, even though it probably reminded him of his father's cruelty each and every time, he continued to play and write music until he died. Even when he went completely deaf, he kept on going."

I hadn't even noticed I was leaning forward eagerly in my seat, as if what he were telling me were the most captivating story I'd ever heard. I felt like I was getting a history lesson from a college professor."Yeah?"

He gave me a small smile and leaned forward as well, resting his elbows on the table and putting his bandaged hands over his face with a heavy sigh. "That's why I play," he answered through his gauze-wrapped palms. "That's why I started playing, that's why I keep playing."

What? But, he hadn't even really answered me...had he?

He brought his hands away from his face. "Do you think we can leave soon?"

"Sure-" He stood to leave and I grabbed his wrist. "Wait!" He paused, glancing down at me, suddenly looking tired. "I...I don't understand."

He looked away from me, chewing his lip thoughtfully. Then, unexpectedly, his arm was yanked from my grip and he made a gesture as if he had just had a brilliant idea, an enthusiastic wave of the hand. "Try listening to his symphonies," he said before turning and walking back to the bedroom.

* * *

Even with Mello being all smiles during breakfast, I shouldn't have been surprised that he was strict and cold once we got into the car. The only times he spoke to me were to give me directions to where ever it was he wanted to go. He wouldn't tell me where exactly, he was being really tight lipped about it. It was still a little scary though. I kept remembering the sound of his voice when he'd held that piece of glass to my neck last night.

What the hell had I gotten myself into?

We were downtown when he finally told me to pull over, at these old, historic buildings that had been turned into homes and loft apartments. I began to wonder what kind of home Mello came from. These types of places didn't seem to fit him or his personality. I'd been expecting this big mansion with a posh yard and a driveway that was half a mile long.

"Stay in here, don't get out and don't talk to anyone," he instructed as I pulled over where he'd told me to.

I nodded obediently as he stepped out of the car and walked up to one of the houses, ringing the bell.

The door opened, but I couldn't see who it was standing in the doorway.

"Mihael!"

Mihael? Was that his name?

"I need my cello, Roger," he stated. His attitude was all business. "And a set of my clothes."

"I-I don't have any more of your clothes." The guy sounded old with this raspy voice. "Why don't you come in and stay? It's safe here."

"Yes, Mello, it's quite safe here." Another new voice, this one young and monotone.

"I'd rather they kill me before I stay here," Mello spat, glowering at whomever had just arrived. I couldn't see them either. "My cello, please, Roger."

"Mihael..."

"Would you like to come in and play with me, Mello?"

"Go to hell," he said, completely straight faced.

The old man cut in. "Give me a moment and I'll fetch it for you."

It seemed to take him forever to come back with his cello. I kept watching Mello who's expression hadn't changed from one of pure and utter loathing, eyes cast down at something, presumably on the floor.

Dear Lord, he wasn't really talking to a _child_ that way, was he?

The man finally came back though, handing his cello case off to him. The moment it was back in his hands, he turned and strode back to the car, motioning for me to pop the trunk so he could put his cello in there.

I did as I was asked and , just as I had guessed, this old guy came out of the door and hobbled over to my car with this walking stick. "Please, Mihael, I know you're upset by all of this, but you must think rationally!"

He ignored the guy the whole way, refusing to even look at his face. I felt a bit bad for him as Mello got back into the car.

"Drive." That was all he said, quietly, as he buckled his seatbelt.

I hesitated for a moment and the man was staring into the car, looking utterly confused and overwhelmed.

"I said drive!" he snapped and I quickly drove away.

As I passed the old man's house, I saw a pale haired boy crouching in the doorway, dreamily waving goodbye to us.


	2. Gavotte

A/N: Whew! Wow! Hey there everyone, I know it's been a ridiculously long time since this has been updated, but I've returned with chapter 2! Things have been crazy and hectic and I'm not sure why, but for some reason, the MM part of my brain decided it wanted to go on a year long vacation and is just starting to come back to me now. I'm so sorry I haven't been updating my older stuff in so long, but believe me when I say that I never stopped working on it. I literally have seven drafts of this very chapter on my computer, some of them long enough to be complete chapters, but I was never happy with any of what I had written. Before I could blink, Matt and Mello had shifted and changed on me, and, while they're not _that _different from the characters they were at the start of this thing, future plot points have been altered, and their personalities had to be tweaked a bit so it would all fit. I realized how these two were complete opposites from my normal fanfiction characterizations, especially Mello.  
Anyways, I should stop rambling on and _finally_ get to chapter 2. Some thanks are in order. Thank you to narni4eva, CabiidO, kaitouahiru, AlmightySponge, Darkness-Bride, Axiam, Melissa (Demon Hiei's Girl), romulus-girl, NothingFromNowhereImNoOneAtAll, demonlifehealer, Moot-kun, Living in a fantasy, twentyfiveraven, Xxyaoi-puppetxX, Daft Punker, Svadilfari, CenterCitizen, Myrah, I'm With Gameboy, naturally morbid, Nairo Xana and Jemmi, kurama'scrystalrose, Songbird Severine, Rosa Lui, Artificial Starlight, merichuel, Rem Gerere, and cheyjeevas for their reviews and everyone else who favorited or put this fic on their alert list. Really, I'm so thankful to all you guys, and I'm so sorry for making you wait so long. I hope this chapter makes up for it.

Remember, everytime you **read and review**, an angel gets it's wings (or finds it's flaming sword, whichever tickles your fancy).

Disclaimer: Death Note isn't mine. Talk to Ohba and Obata. They have greater imaginations than me.

* * *

Chapter 2 - Gavotte

I'm not the biggest fan of tea, though for some reason I always seem to get about 3 boxes of the stuff at Christmas time from people around the publishing house. Naomi has offered to take them off my hands before, but I've always kept them. 'In case I ever have company who likes tea,' I'd tell her.

Well, it probably wasn't the brightest decision, considering I never have company to begin with.

Even so, I'll drink tea on occasion, if I ever have a rather uninspiring night or if the house is too bloody cold.

And when Mello and I finally got back to the house, I decided that having a rather depressed musician-slash-murderer moping about my living room was simply another occasion that called for it.

"Want some tea?" I asked weakly as he practically collapsed on the couch. He always looked so small when he hunched over like that, especially when the lines of his body seemed to be hiding in the folds of my old clothes.

He scrubbed at his face with his hands for a moment and then kept them there, speaking into his palms. "Yeah, that'd be great."

"Right," I said, hesitating, nodding to no one in particular. Something about the atmosphere felt incredibly _off_, some gear in everything was loose and rattling and making a whole lot of noise, but where it came from was a giant mystery. In reality though, that noise was absolute silence, because neither one of us was saying anything of importance. The only noise in the house was the persistent hum of rain on the roof as storm clouds slowly rolled in."I'll go and put the kettle on then."

I walked stiffly to the kitchen, like some great force was trying to pull me back, telling me to stay and comfort him.

"What the fuck can I do?" I muttered angrily, slamming the kettle on the burner and turning the knob with a violent twist. I _could_ have told him to get the fuck out, that he asked for a ride and got it, that I didn't owe him anything and he was damn lucky I didn't call the cops on his ass.

Without him, my life would be normal again. Quiet days spent at a quiet computer or typewriter. Quiet evenings spent with quiet dinners and quiet television. Quiet nights spent in a quiet bed with no one else.

Fuck, even the noise of rain on the roof was new to me, like he was the one giving it any sound at all.

I bit my lip and pulled at a loose thread on the cuff of my sleeve.

And then I realized I hadn't asked him what kind of tea he drank. I looked at the doorway between the kitchen and the living room and realized that I wanted nothing less than to face him right now, while I was still reeling with embarrassment at how lonely my pathetic little life had been just 24 hours ago.

I tried to distract myself by digging through the cupboards for my tea, I found a box of green tea behind the ramen, some sort of flowery herbal tea behind that. I stared at both boxes, frowning. There _had _ to be more than just this. I knew they were probably all scattered around the kitchen, but something about this cupboard in particular was calling to me (something that sounded suspiciously like desperation). So I arched forward, standing up on the balls of my feet to stretch and grope around on the shelf and..._there_, behind a bunch of cans of soup was a dusty, unopened box of Earl Grey. I wondered if he liked Earl Grey, and then hoped to God that he did, or else he'd think I was an idiot for offering to bring him tea when I didn't know where the Hell I kept it in my own kitchen.

"The water's boiling."

I jerked in surprise and slammed my head against the edge of the cupboard shelf. "Fuck!" I hissed, slowly pulling out of the cupboard to rub at my head. In the other hand I clutched the Earl Grey. Next to me, the kettle was whistling shrilly on the stove.

How the hell had I missed it?

"Are you alright?" Mello asked from the doorway, looking a little concerned.

"Yeah, yeah, just..." I hissed again and realized that it was the whistling kettle that was responsible for my damned headache and finally took it off the burner. "Sorry, I got a little distracted." His frown deepened and his scar suddenly looked like some gloomy raincloud across his face. I felt this sudden urge to shoo it away. "Hey, look, I'll be out in a second with your tea, alright? Um, wanna watch a movie or something? I've got loads of them in the cabinet next to the TV. I don't know if you'll like any of them, I haven't watched most of them myself, but we can always get something on pay per view too. I don't go to the movies, really-" _Oh God, someone please shut me up! _"-and sorry about taking so long. I hope you like Earl Grey, because I can't seem to find anything else. It's been awhile since I've had tea and I-" My voice started spiraling into this nervous laugh but it cut off before it could get there.

Mello had stepped forward and taken my wrist in a tight grip.

"Just..." he began stiffly with an almost tormented look on his face. He bit his lip and loosened his hold on my wrist a little. He opened his mouth once, closed it, looked away.

I stood, frozen, terrified and touched in the same moment. The pounding of blood in my ears had replaced the shrill sound of the kettle.

"You...you talk about the stupidest things," he finally said after a silence that seemed to last years. He looked up at me again, and something just..._broke_. He started crying, taking a step back and suddenly slipping his bandage wrapped hand upwards, lacing his fingers with mine and squeezing hard enough to break my fingers. "You...fuck, you talk about the most pointless shit!" He sounded almost breathless, falling back against my fridge, never letting go of my hand.

"Mello..." I started, and then stopped again when he made a sharp noise that told me not to speak.

He tried to say something. He really, _really_ tried, moved his lips to mouth the words but the sound wouldn't come. And I'm crap at reading lips, so I couldn't figure out exactly what it was. He grit his teeth and inhaled sharply, pressing the heel of his hand against his closed eye. My fingers began to go numb, but I didn't dare let go. Fear and some sort of unexplainable feeling of obligation urged me to hold that connection, to keep him grounded, to keep myself grounded as his emotions ran in violent torrents around us. "And...and you never, ever try to _touch_ me!" he gasped. "You just...you don't fucking care!"

I wanted to tell him that I did care, but it seemed so impulsive and...well, I couldn't honestly say it wasn't a lie.

Also, I don't think it was what he would have wanted to hear.

All I could do was watch, confused, as he choked and cursed, seemingly trying to ride out whatever horrible storm my words had thrown him into. His whole body seemed to slump against the refrigerator, but his arm was rigid and deliberate. I couldn't move closer, but I couldn't pull away. He kept me at a distance, but just enough within reach.

And maybe...maybe that was okay. Maybe I could deal with that.

I frowned and looked away, staring down at the Earl Grey and listening to him cry.

* * *

For the next few days, there wasn't really any talk of when Mello would be leaving.

He never asked, and I never mentioned it. Part of me just sort of expected to wake up one morning to find him gone, along with most of my money and valuables.

I started cleaning out my den for him, so he could practice when his hands healed. I had never really used the room, except for storage. The room was loaded from wall to wall with old boxes and bins and an infestation of dust bunnies. It took me nearly half a day just to put a dent in the mess, but I estimated it would only take me another day or so to finish it up, just enough time for his hands to heal up.

Apparently, Mello couldn't wait that long to practice.

"I told you that you should have waited another day." I pulled another strip of bloody gauze back before dropping it into the waste bin beside me. "Damn, didn't it hurt?"

Mello shrugged, leaning back in his chair. "Not really," he said, drumming his fingers impatiently on the kitchen table. "Just bandage it up again for me."

Not even a 'please'. Geez, he was demanding.

And yet, I had to remind myself that I was still doing what he told me to do. What did that say about me then?

It said that I was stupid enough to bandage up a spoiled brat's hands even after telling him that he would end up hurting himself if he tried to play his cello again too soon.

The lighting in the kitchen was far better than in the living room, so cleaning the cuts across Mello's palms was a lot easier than it had been on his first night here.

"Hold up," I murmured in the middle of dabbing at the re-opened wounds with rubbing alcohol. I took his hand in a firm grip and pulled it up close to my face. "There's still a piece of glass in here."

Mello's cheeks went a little pink. "Wondered what that was," he mumbled, slightly shamefaced.

I narrowed my eyes at him, trying to keep a straight face. I felt a smug smile dancing at the corners of my mouth. _Be firm_, I reminded myself. _Don't let him make a fool out of you._ "I thought you said it didn't hurt."

"I said 'not really'," Mello snapped, weakly trying to pull his hand back. A little blood was surfacing where the small shard was still lodged, on the verge of dripping along his hand and off, onto the linoleum of my kitchen floor. "Jesus, would you _let go_? That fucking hurts!"

I released his hand, still trying to maintain some shred of control. "How long has it been like that?" I asked. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

He tensed, drawing his limbs in closer to himself, somehow shrinking back and puffing himself up at the same time. "I can handle myself," he said coldly, leveling his gaze at me.

It was that same sort of broken look he had given me when he told me that story about Beethoven and his father.

Wait a minute...

His _father_.

Something in this mess was finally beginning to make sense.

"Mello," I started, shifting in my chair. I tried to look away from him, but he had me completely ensnared. "Look, if...if there's something you want to tell me-"

"There's nothing I want to tell you," he said cooly and, just like that, the look was gone. All that was left was stony determination. "Where are the tweezers? I'll take care of this myself."

I leaned forward a bit. "But, the other night-"

"I don't know what you're talking about." I didn't miss the slight falter in his voice there. He knew exactly what the fuck I was talking about. His fingers flexed and twitched; they certainly knew what I was talking about. He looked sharply down at them. "If you're not going to tell me, I'll just find them myself."

He cradled the hand I had unwrapped with the other, which was still covered in bloody bandages, and marched out of the kitchen towards the bathroom.

I gave a miserable sigh and sank down in my chair, kicking lightly at the trash bin, scooting it across the floor.

Shit, I'd really screwed that up.

But I had only been trying to help. He had come to me, after all, asking me to bandage his hands again.

I couldn't tell where the line was, when I was trying to mend Mello's wounds and when I was ripping them open.

I blinked, my foot freezing mid-kick.

Maybe the whole problem was that I was trying to mend them at all, I realized, feeling ashamed. I mean, it wasn't as if I was his caretaker or anything. After all, he might simply walk out the front door at any moment and I'd be nothing but a shadow of a memory to him.

Mello's stay wasn't going to be long-term, so why should he listen to me at all?

I only sulked about in the kitchen for a minute longer before gathering up the rubbing alcohol and shuffling back towards the bathroom. One of us had to apologize, and it sure didn't seem like it was going to be Mello.

I saw he managed to find the tweezers; he had his hand laid out flat on the counter by the sink, looking closely at the small bit of glass wedged into a shallow cut. I leaned against the doorframe and watched him for awhile. If he knew I was there, he didn't show it.

His face was focused and calm, but the hand holding the tweezers was shaking too much for him to even properly grab the shard.

"Lemme help," I murmured, stepping forward.

"I've got it," he snarled, eyes burning. "I told you I can take care of myself."

I stopped just beside him and held my hand out, open and unthreatening. "If you try and grab it like that you'll just wedge it in deeper." He ignored me. I raised my voice a little the next time. "I want you to know that if you end up cutting some major artery, I'll have to take you to a doctor. I'm not going to sit here playing Operation with you until you die of blood loss."

He seemed to consider this for a second before begrudgingly handing over the tweezers. "Fine."

I took the tweezers, smiling a little too brightly, and patted the counter with my hand. "Alright, hop up then." He stared a bit vacantly at me for a moment before I realized it might be a bit hard for him to sit up on the counter without his hands. "Do you...need me to lift you?" I offered awkwardly.

"No, it's fine." He managed to get up, a little clumsily, using his arms and elbows. When he was finally balanced and settled and I had taken a seat on the toilet lid, he thrust his hand out to me, quite conveniently avoiding looking at my face.

Figuring out how to pull the bit of glass out was difficult; it was a little longer than I thought and it had gone in at an awkward angle. I had to turn Mello's hand at a few different angles before I could finally determine how to go at it.

Hell, I should be a surgeon.

I took a brief moment to consider getting a new job. Maybe I'd actually be good at surgery. It would certainly make me more money, not that money was exactly an issue. Dear old, dead Mom and Dad saw to that.

And those medical shows were all pretty cool too, like House and ER.

My hand stopped, the tweezers hovering just over the cut.

But what if I accidentally killed someone?

No, I don't think I could handle that. At least as a writer, I wouldn't be able to kill anyone. At least, not directly.

"Something the matter?" Mello said from above me.

I cleared my throat, groping for something to say. "I was just thinking about this whole arrangement," I lied, face burning.

Of all the possible answers, I had to say something like that?!

"Arrangement?" I heard more than saw his confused expression.

"Yeah, you know." I shrugged in what I hoped was a casual gesture. "I mean, you've been here a few days, and I know we haven't really _talked_ about any of this stuff and I thought-"

"Look, I can leave if you want."

"-that maybe you could stay for awhile."

We spoke at the same time, and then paused. I looked up at him to see him looking back, his rather astonished expression mirroring my exact feelings at that moment.

"You...want me to stay?" I took a little solace in the fact that he sounded more curious than disgusted, but it didn't help much. How could I have even thought to ask him to stay? Really, how much of an idiot was I? He was on the run, wasn't he?

Oh, that's right, he was a _murderer!_ How could I have asked a murderer to _stay_ in my _house? To sleep in my bedroom?!_

"I mean, you don't have to," I mumbled, turning my attention back to his hand and clamping down on the glass with the tweezers. "But I just figured since you've already got your cello here-" I pulled back, the glass following. "-and I'm cleaning the den and all-" The shard slowly slid out. A slow trickle of blood began leaking out. Some gauze and a little pressure solved that. "-that you could just stay here for...awhile." Yeah, that sounded cryptic enough.

Mello said nothing.

For some insane reason, I felt my heart sink.

It was true. I wanted him to stay. I usually can't stand being around people, but with Mello, something seemed to just..._fit_. It was like he knew me better than I knew myself. He teased me, yes, but there was always something else behind it, something that felt like longing.

Call me crazy, but I think he was jealous of me at times.

And honestly, knowing that someone was actually _jealous_ of my boring life made it a little easier to forget about just how mundane it was.

"Hold some pressure on that for me, would you?" I told him as I threw away the piece of glass and washed off my hands and the tweezers.

When I finally started to work on his other hand, he still hadn't said anything. It was when I was nearly finished with the appendage, unrolling bandages and gauze, that he finally said something.

"If...if you'll have me," he said, so quietly I almost missed it. There was a sense of fragility to his voice, as if he were afraid I'd suddenly declare it all some huge prank at his expense. "I'd really like to stay here." I faltered in my motions and felt my face flaring up with heat again. "Is that alright? I can pay you rent if you'd like."

"Don't worry about it," I insisted, rather gruffly in a poor attempt to cover up my rising demented glee. I jumped as I felt him touch the top of my head.

"You've got dust in your hair," he said, laughing a little. His hand brushed at the top of my head, flicking the dust away with gentle sweeping motions.

I was sure that my face was as red as a tomato now. Mello didn't exactly like me touching him, but he seemed to have no reservations about touching me.

I finished his other hand as quickly as I could, hunching over so he couldn't see how badly I was blushing. "There, all done." I stood and rinsed my hands off in the sink, shoulders drawn up nearly to my ears.

"Thank you," he said as I dried my hands. There was no fondness or anything like that in it, it was just a simple 'thank you'.

I offered to help him down but he brushed me off again.

When he hopped off the counter, he tripped forward and landed softly against my chest.

I hadn't even realized my arms had stuck themselves out to steady him until I felt him go stock-still. All I could see were his green eyes, wide and rather terrified, looking back at me. Our faces were close enough for our noses to brush.

Oh shit, don't think about that.

All the blood seemed to have rushed from his face, leaving him looking rather sickly.

"You alright?"

He jerked away from me, sticking a hand out to, once again, keep me at a comfortable distance. It pressed firmly against my sternum, pushing me further still from him. "Yes, sorry, I'm fine." I nodded dumbly and he maneuvered his way around me and towards the door. "I'm going to go put in a movie, okay?"

He had grown quite acquainted with my movie collection in the past few days. He was particularly fond of Amadeus. I wasn't sure if he had seen it before I met him or not.

I nodded vacantly again. "Burgers okay for dinner?" Fuck, why did my voice have to start cracking now?

"Yeah, that's fine," he said, forcing something that was probably supposed to be a smile but turned out more like a grimace.

Then he was gone, leaving me alone to calm my disobedient nerves.

When I went to bed that night, I still couldn't get the smell of him out of my nose, or the warmth of his breath off my face.

And I still couldn't shake this awful feeling that I had just made a very, very bad decision.

The nightmares of what I may have gotten myself into kept me up all night.

* * *

The next morning, I watched Mello put chocolate syrup on his toaster waffles as I wracked my brain on how to ask the questions that I was rather keen on addressing now that I was sure Mello wasn't going to simply disappear.

Mello liked waffles and chocolate syrup for breakfast, and chocolate poptarts, and chocolate muffins. Anything chocolate, he wanted it.

I preferred my waffles with a nice dose of Mrs. Butterworth. I wouldn't touch his chocolate soaked breakfast.

This whole living together thing was weird. Really weird. I felt like we should be acting all buddy-buddy now that we were roomies, but there seemed to be this huge chasm between us, a giant gap in knowledge that I struggled to try and see across.

We would have to stretch over that chasm, slowly work our way across.

Or maybe he wouldn't even be here that long. Even with this new settlement between us, it wasn't a complete certainty that he'd actually stay.

Still, I decided that I wanted to make that first stretch.

He had no reason to tell me anything about himself. So I would just have to tell him something about me. That should be enough, right?

"When I was little, I used to be super afraid of birds."

Mello stopped chewing all of a sudden, giving me a rather baffled look. He swallowed the food in his mouth and then smiled weakly. "That's...nice."

I jumped straight to the point a little too quickly, too eagerly. "What about you?"

"What about me?" He shrugged and took another bite of waffle. I watched the thick brown syrup drip off the corners and onto a little puddle on his plate.

Part of me thought he may have been feigning ignorance in order to distract me, or maybe discourage me.

No! I would not be swayed!

I put my fist down firmly on the table to prove my determination. Mello jumped a little, looking confused.

"Is there something wrong with the table?" he asked, the tines of his fork resting against his lower lip.

"Well, I mean, I told you something about me, aren't you supposed to say something about yourself now?"

He raised an eyebrow. "When did we agree on that?"

"Er..." I began, realizing that we _hadn't_ ever agreed on anything like that. It had all been inside my own head. "It's polite is all."

"Alright. When I was a kid, I wasn't terrified of birds at all." He took another bite of his waffles, looking satisfied with himself.

I frowned at him, watching him stab at the last few bits of waffle with his fork.

"That's not really fair."

"It is true, though."

"But that doesn't tell me anything about you."

He put his fork down with a clatter. "Don't pretend that information has no value," he said, looking frustrated. "You telling me about your fear of birds is nice and all, but it really means nothing to me, okay?" He wiped away a smudge of chocolate syrup from his lip. I hadn't realized I'd been staring at it. "I appreciate you letting me stay with you, but if you're going to make me pour out my life story as some sort of payment, I think I'd rather stay somewhere else." His eyes were almost pleading with me.

I stared at him for a moment, trying to work out what he was telling me. "So...you'll only tell me what I want to know if I tell you what you want to know?"

"Those were the rules the first time." He began picking at the edge of one of his bandages.

That's right, we had done this before. I would just have to figure him out, one small step at a time. One question at a time, turn by turn.

_Only if you're okay with the fact that you might not like what you hear._

I began feeling very nervous. I poked at my waffles, pushing them around in the sea of syrup surrounding them. What sort of question was he talking about?

"When we went to get your cello..." I stabbed at the waffles with my fork. "Who was that man who came out to the car?"

"His name is Roger." There was no reluctance in his answer. Maybe this would be easier than I thought. "He gave me music lessons when I was little. Now he arranges recitals and performances for me outside of the symphony."

"The symphony?"

"Stop," he said, holding a hand up between us. "I gave you my answer. Now tell me why you invited me to stay here."

I forced a laugh to cover up my total lack of preparation. "_That's_ what you want to know?" Shit, I didn't have an answer for that one! "Why would you want to know that?"

"Stop answering my question with questions." He looked deathly serious all of a sudden, his lips pressed into a tight line. I glanced down at his plate and fork.

I saw what Mello could do with his bare hands and a public toilet, I had no desire to see what he was capable of with a fork and broken china.

"Can I just clear the table first?" I asked, meekly.

"_No._" I could hear in his tone that he would probably punch me if I decided to get up from the table now. The muscles in his arms flexed and I could almost see his hands tightening into fists beneath the table.

"It...I..." I gestured wildly with my hands, like I was trying to grab the reasons out of thin air.

In all honesty, that's basically what I was doing.

"It's not all that complicated," I said, huffily. "I mean, you needed help, didn't you? You asked me for a ride, so I gave you one. You needed a place to stay, so I let you stay. And you haven't killed me yet even though you've had plenty of opportunities - and don't think that I haven't noticed all those opportunities- and before you came along I hadn't been able to write anything of worth in months and then I heard you playing and BAM! All of a sudden I can't stop!" I hadn't meant to let that part slip out, but there it was.

I felt humiliated, like some kid who just had his first crush outed to everyone.

Except that this _wasn't a crush_. Not at all.

Mello still just stared at me; he didn't say a word.

At least he didn't look upset anymore.

Actually, he looked confused.

An odd sort of silence fell between us. I finally dared to reach over and take his plate as I began to clear the table.

"So there it is." I stood up, watching him carefully. I was still afraid he might try and hit me. As I walked to the sink, I saw him touching the edge of his scar out of the corner of my eye, tracing along it's edge, over his cheek and back towards his ear.

"What happened to you?" I asked. He gave me a confused look and I gestured at my own face. "You know...the scar."

And then...he _smiled_. Not a normal, happy smile, the kind of smile that those insane supervillains always wear in those cheesy action movies. The kind that says "I've got a few screws loose and a knack for getting out of a straight jacket."

"It was an accident," he said, though his words felt empty, as if it were a phrase he kept hearing again and again, one he was expected to recite to people. "One of my father's friends got a little careless."

His father? Oh God, I felt sick all of a sudden. I noticed his hands were tight and shaking against his thighs.

"Ah, hmm, I'm sorry to hear that," I told him stiffly, and turned to the sink before I could start backtracking and saying what I really thought. I didn't want to hear about his father right now, I didn't want to know any more about what happened to him. I really, really didn't.

I busied myself with the dishes, hoping I could scrub off this horrible feeling crawling under my skin, that Mello's smile would disappear into the thick, white soap suds.

When I turned to grab a towel from across the room, Mello was right there in front of me.

"Jesus!" I exclaimed and leaned away from him. I heaved a sigh as my wet and soapy hands, raised up near my ears, dripped water down my wrists and onto the floor. "Don't scare me like that."

"You scare too easily," he spat, looking annoyed. "Why did you ask me to stay here?"

"I told you already."

He took a savage step forward, bearing his teeth. I felt my back slam against the counter's edge, heard his hand land flat on the counter behind me. "It's insulting the way you look at me," he snarled. "The way you try to pretend it never happened."

I shrank back as far as I could, honestly frightened for my life now. "I-I know it happened, I just don't know why."

"You think a jury would give a damn?!" He leaned closer, which seemed almost impossible. He was as close as he could be without actually _touching _me. "I killed him, I murdered him. He yelled at me to stop, and I ignored him. It's murder, plain and simple."

I wouldn't even look at him. My hands were up in defense now more than anything else.

"Say it."

"Say what?"

"I killed my father."

I risked a glance up at him; his expression was murderous, but there was something else there too, something soft and desperate.

"You killed your father," I recited, hoping I sounded just as robotic as he had before.

"I murdered him."

"You murdered him."

His grin was twisted and broken, almost sad to look at.

"Then look at me for what I really am and ask me to stay here."

I looked at him. He still looked the same. Still terrifying and lonely.

And that loneliness was enticing, it sang with something in my own blood, pulsed with the same rhythm, craved that same touch.

"Stay here with me," I murmured. "You..." I felt my throat go dry and swallowed before continuing. "You killed your own father and I want you to stay here with me."

* * *

I'd love to say that living with Mello was an easy thing to acclimate to, since his demands were really simple:

1) I wasn't to touch him unless he allowed me to, and if I had to, I was supposed to ask first.

2) All answers were repaid with answers.

Our little games of twenty questions went smoothly. I managed to learn what his favorite brand of chocolate was, that he had a puppy when he was 4, and that he once dreamed of being a meteorologist. There were other questions I wanted to ask him, and maybe he would have answered if I did, but I felt like there was another set of unspoken rules between us. _Don't poke at open wounds._ There were obvious sore spots in Mello's past, clearly marked off by the way he would call an end to our back and forth whenever the subject of his mother or that kid we saw back at Roger's place came up. Most of the time, we could just call an end to our game and go about as if nothing had happened.

But, there were times when it wasn't easy to live with him at all.

The exact definition of _touching_ was incredibly fuzzy, because most of the time, Mello seemed to be the one initiating the physical contact.

He crawled into my bed twice over the next week. He woke me each time and asked, and I let him. The first time, he left while I was deep asleep. The second time, I felt his fingers pressed to my own, tip to tip, for a few minutes while I pretended to sleep.

He put his arms over my shoulders while I sat at my desk, leaned against me when we passed in the hall, and teased me about being a "pervert" whenever he got me flustered.

Really, was it my fault that he knew just how to push my buttons?

He had a sparse wardrobe by the end of the week, a few of my old sweaters and long-sleeved shirts and two pairs of jeans. The jeans were just the right length but he still had to use one of my belts to get them to fit.

He learned that I liked video games, and I learned that I should never have told him that.

If there was one thing I took to heart over the first week of living with him, it was to never challenge Mello in anything, whether it be fighting over the remote, or what we'd have for dinner, or even Mario Kart.

He was definitely quick-witted and his arms were deceptively strong, able to put me in a headlock with almost no effort. And then, of course, there were less direct methods of fucking with my head, methods that he tended to use whenever we were planted in front of the TV, locked in a dead heat in a game of Halo.

It always went the same way, and that night was no different.

"Shit!" I cursed, leaning forward slightly, practically on the edge of the couch, back hunched and shoulders tense. "Come on, Mello! Give me a break!" My character ducked behind a tower of crates to hide, narrowly avoiding a shot to the head. Mello's man was setting himself up to snipe me the moment I emerged.

Beside me, he was chuckling darkly. My heart sped up and I swallowed thickly. Was I really that nervous about losing to him? "You're the self-proclaimed 'master of videogames'," he teased. The couch cushions shifted beside me. "Surely you could hold your own against someone like me." His voice was already dropping in pitch, down to a soft and flowing tone that just sounded so nice coming out of his mouth. "I mean, come on, I've got injured hands, after all."

Fuck, fuck, fuck! He was making his move!

He was creeping towards me. If there were anytime to try and escape, it'd be now, though I wasn't sure if I was trying to escape him in the game, or here on the couch.

Still, the issue remained that I was pinned down and I had to think of something before he really _did _drive me insane with his breath against the side of my face.

So...I faked a high pitched whine, one that was supposed to tell him that I was more focused on him and not the game. The moment I saw that grin out of the corner of my eye, I darted out from behind the crates and made a dash for the next room where I wouldn't be so vulnerable.

"_Risky move_."

SHIT! His fucking mouth was practically against my ear! He was _leaning into me_!

I squeaked - yes, _squeaked_ - and jolted forward. The controller slipped from my hands and I scrambled to grab the cord to pull it back, but it was already over. My character had stopped in the dead center of Mello's line of fire. By the time I had regained control, I was gone, sprawled out over the concrete while Mello was congratulated on his perfect assassination.

"I win again," he sang, reclining back on the couch, a triumphant smirk on his face.

"You fucking cheated," I muttered, trying not to look him in the face. I could just imagine how red my cheeks were.

He was already entering his initials into the high scores.

MBK.

I chewed on my lower lip, silently wondering what the B and K stood for. Maybe...Bartholomew Knox? No, Benjamin Knight.

Mihael Benjamin Knight...

"You're the one who acts like a teenager who just found his first porn magazine," he said as he triumphantly watched his initials flash in second place on the high scores. Thankfully, I still held the top spot, though I haven't come close to beating that score since I managed to get it.

Just got lucky, I suppose.

"Wanna go again?" he asked, a suggestive grin on his face.

The flush on my face darkened and stood from the couch. "Didn't anyone ever teach you to respect your elders?" I was in such a damn hurry to get out of the room. I could already feel my body turning against me and if I didn't get out from under Mello's gaze, eyes sparkling with a humor that most definitely wasn't innocent, this would probably turn into one of my most mortifying memories.

Mello scoffed loudly. "_Elders_? What the fuck are you talking about?"

I gave him a curious look before I passed into the kitchen. "Well, aren't you-?"

The phone chose that moment to start ringing, and since I was already in the process of trying to escape, I chose the lesser of two evils without even thinking about it. I grabbed the ringing phone as if I were sinking on the Titanic and it was the last buoyant object left in sight.

Guess that makes me a coward.

"Hello?" Damn, I hated that I sounded so out of breath.

"Jeevas, tell me why I'm staring at my mailbox and your manuscript _isn't in there_."

Oh, fuck. This night just kept getting better and better...

"N-Naomi!" I said a little too loudly. "How nice to hear from you!" I tried laughing and ended up sounding like some whimpering dog.

Honestly, if this were face to face, I'm sure she'd be holding a shotgun to my head just like Ol' Yeller.

"Matt, I'm serious," she said, her voice quiet and even. Naomi never yelled, she was always calm whenever she spoke. It was almost scarier than having her yell. "You said you would have the first half edited and mailed to me by the end of the month. If you can't get your act together, Soichiro is going to -"

"Hey!" I chimed in indignantly, turning away as Mello ambled curiously into the kitchen. "It is _not_ the end of the month! It's only the 27th." I must be fucking brain dead.

"Matt," she said, firmly, in a tone that allowed for nothing but full and undivided attention. No, she didn't have to yell. I could feel the force of her anger coming through the phone line, this unbearable heat against my cheek, pricking and scalding my skin and knocking my self-esteem down another few pegs. "I already gave you a month-long extension. I covered for you during the last three editor's meetings, but I cannot do it anymore." Somewhere in the middle of her rant, she slid into this hopeless tone, as if she were a wife who was pleading with her husband to get off his ass and fix the fucking sink, or sweep out the garage, or take the kids to soccer practice. "Aizawa and Ide have been standing up for you at the meetings, but Soichiro isn't going to buy it much longer. Matt, if you keep this up-"

"I know, I know," I pressed, trying to calm her down. It always seemed to be a hopeless endeavor, but at least she'd know I was being serious about all of this. "I'm sorry. Please, if they threaten to move your clients to Matsuda because of me, I'll take the blame. Really, I'm sorry." I heard her sigh heavily and took that as a sign to continue. "Look, I promise I'll have it done. I can hand it to you at the Halloween party, okay?"

"This is the last time I'm doing this for you, Matt," she warned. "Next time, you're going to have to explain yourself to Soichiro on your own." She paused for a moment, as if considering whether it was a good idea to say anything more. "It might be smart for you to show up to the next few meetings so that it actually looks like you're involved in all of this."

My stomach suddenly dropped into a black hole that I didn't even know I had in my abdomen.

"I...I can't," I struggled to say, glancing over at Mello who was currently munching on a slice of cold pizza. I saw him look up from the cardboard pizza box resting on the stovetop, meeting my eyes for only a second before I looked away again.

For some reason, I felt ashamed of myself. Was it really fair to be doing this? Was it fair to myself to look after someone who didn't really need to be looked after? Was it fair to Mello to saddle him with the knowledge that I was putting my job at risk for him? Was it fair to Naomi to burden her with so much stress?

Mello apparently read my expression with absolute clarity. "You don't have to baby me," he muttered quietly, leaning back against the stove. He crossed one leg in front of the other and I couldn't help but stare for a moment.

He just looked so goddamn elegant like that, in my mess of a kitchen, wearing an oversized t-shirt and a pair of my sweatpants, eating cheap and, most likely, stone-cold pizza.

Oh yeah, he was fucking graceful standing there.

"Who was that?" Naomi asked.

Damn, she was sharp.

"Just a friend," I insisted.

"A friend?" Her tone said she didn't believe me. And why should she? Coming from me it sounded like a bald-faced lie. I didn't have _friends_, much less any that I would invite over in the evenings.

"Listen, I'll try and make it to the next meeting. Just send me an email with the dates. I'll have the manuscript for you at the Halloween party, I promise. Bye!" I hung the phone up as fast as I could and then slouched against the kitchen wall. Finally, after wallowing in my own shame for a few moments, I turned to face Mello.

I expected him to look amused, ready to taunt me some more about getting my ass handed to me by my agent.

I wasn't expecting him to look so..._disappointed_.

"My agent," I explained, smiling weakly. "I may have to go to a meeting sometime this week. You can cook up whatever is in the fridge or I can leave you some money for pizza or something."

"Whatever," he said with a shrug. God, his tone of voice was like a twisting blade in an open wound. "I'll be fine." He gave me a stern look and neither of us spoke for what felt like hours. When he finally spoke up again, his words were like a punch in the stomach. "You're not doing yourself any favors, running away from things all the time."

"Like you're one to talk," I muttered.

Shit, he looked hurt. He went rigid in anger, but the look in his eyes told me that what I had said hit on a nerve I probably shouldn't have prodded.

I should have fucking apologized, but the selfish brat in me kept my mouth shut.

"I'm going to bed," he snapped, striding out of the kitchen and down the hall to the bedroom.

And when I finally went to bed a half an hour later, I saw him lying stiffly in the futon with his back towards me.

I knew he was doing it to spite me, because the street light would have been right in his face and no one can honestly sleep like that.


End file.
